


Performance Review

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All systems can benefit from a little peer review.</p><p>Re-post to archive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performance Review

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crysothemis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crysothemis/gifts).



> Inspired by crys' [chibi!John's belly](http://crysothemis.livejournal.com/105640.html#cutid1).

  
It's performance review time again, and they're both bunkered in Rodney's quarters with radios on Extreme Emergency Override Only (Atlantis Better Be Sinking. And on Fire.) with the doors locked, locked, locked. Rodney is at his desk with two laptops and four personnel forms open, and Sheppard is sprawled on Rodney's couch using a clipboard and _paper_ , for God's sake, tapping a pencil against his lips. He's already nibbled dents into the metal bit that holds the eraser, and every so often he pushes his hand into his hair and groans softly.

Rodney knows just how he feels. He's already run out of nice ways to say "shouldn't be allowed near sharp objects," and is staring into space trying to think up yet another synonym for "incompetent" when his eyes focus on John, who's put the clipboard aside and is arching in a lazy stretch, socked toes flexing, spine bowing so his untucked black T-shirt creeps up to expose a flash of belly and a slice of his hip bone, including that muscle that runs over it and draws a path down to his groin. John's fingers land on skin to scratch idly. _Scritch. Scritch._

 _Colonel Goddamned Teasy-Flirt,_ Rodney thinks, exasperated and aroused at the same time, and he flicks his eyes up to John's face, except John is oblivious; isn't even looking at him, but is going for the full-on stretch now, arms going back, face twisting into a yawn, and he rubs one absurd, curvy eyebrow with his knuckles, looking about three years old, and wrinkles his nose. When he opens his eyes and catches Rodney staring at him, he blinks in surprise and then smiles a little bashfully.

"Uh, hey."

"Hey, yourself." Rodney licks lips gone suddenly dry, and realizes he's put his feet down and rolled his chair forward on automatic pilot, drawn by the magnetic force that is one stupefyingly, ridiculously hot Lieutenant Colonel daring to lounge on his sofa with one of his socks rolled down so it shows his bony shin. And his shirt is still rucked up and Rodney thinks if he moves fast enough he can maybe bury his nose in John's warm belly.

Because he can. He's allowed to now, performance evaluations be damned.

"You done already?" There's something a little breathless about the way John asks, and Rodney thinks if he dared to look he'd catch it on John's face, but they're both new enough to this that he has a little mercy and doesn't look; he'd rather let it sneak up on both of them.

"Not even close. I still have two anthropologists, three physicists and a zoo-keeper." Rodney keeps rolling forward stealthily, glad he'd applied WD-40 to his wheels just last week.

"Zoo-keeper?" John's hand drops to his thigh and Rodney can see his fingers tapping there. Rodney rolls a little faster.

"Well...biologist."

John chuckles low, and when Rodney's chair bumps up against the sofa, his hand comes up and catches Rodney's knee to cup it warmly. "I've got three privates, a lance corporal, a gunny, two second lieutenants, and Major Lorne." John's thumb rubs over the ball of muscle on Rodney's knee, making him shiver.

"You win."

John gives him a frowning smile. "I do?"

"Yes. You are way deeper in the hole than I am."

"I definitely am." John lets his other arm drop back over his head. "What do I win?"

Rodney looks helplessly down at the way John's stretch has pulled up his Air Force ROTC T-shirt even higher, exposing more of his pale stomach so he's all spread out like a creased and rumpled smorgasbord. John has a pencil mark on his lower lip and his hair has achieved a level of disheveledness usually only possible after sweaty and rigorous frottage, and Rodney wonders how much more tousled he can make it in the next half hour.

But first, he leans over and succumbs to the pull of the hollow below John's hip that's been calling to him, right where John's fingers scratched so lightly and teasingly. Rodney bends down low enough to rub his nose there and smell _John_ , musky and salty, and John rumbles a low sound of encouragement, whispers Rodney's name, his hand cupping the back of Rodney's head.

"We're gonna miss our deadlines."

"Screw the bureaucrats," Rodney mumbles against John's clean-tasting skin, and noses his way down, pushing aside the loose waist of John's BDU pants. How they ever stay on his hips, Rodney will never know. Magnets, maybe, or sheer force of will. Maybe they're ATA controlled, which would explain why Rodney's weaker gene failed to make them fall off all the many times he tried by staring at John's ass during long hikes off-world, his only distraction from the burning in his own calves and his shortness of breath in those early days before he'd gotten in shape.

He likes his own shape now, likes the way John looked at him when he had Rodney naked in his double bed—speaking of which, this maneuver would be a lot easier there instead of here, where he's fighting the wheels of the chair to stay close enough to nibble on the soft lower swell of John's belly, not to mention he's risking his back seizing up, but he doesn't want to stop. He still can't quite believe this is his, that he can do this, that John is _letting_ him, and maybe he moans a little too desperately, because John says, "Hey, hey," his stomach moving under Rodney's lips, and his fingers touch Rodney's cheek, easing him up and away.

"You're gonna hurt your back like that." John looks concerned, and not about his back.

"No, I know, of course." Rodney sighs and pushes himself up again, but John grabs the chair and rolls him over, clutches him by the waist, and then in some inexplicable move suddenly has Rodney tucked under him, their legs tangled together and the chair overturned beside them, its wheels still spinning in outrage.

"Much better," John says in perfect satisfaction while Rodney stares up at him, completely overwhelmed.

"You...you—"

"I've always been good at 3-D maneuvers," John says, not modestly at all, and Rodney bats at his shoulder. But John laughs and kisses him quiet, still such a surprise, how their lips fit, how John can go from annoying and teasing to so damned tender and serious and then hot, swiveling his hard cock against Rodney's thigh, his tongue pushing into Rodney's mouth, leaving Rodney breathless with wanting it so badly. How could he have known? He couldn't have. There was no previous data to build from, and for all he called John the Captain Kirk of Pegasus, he'd never actually seen him with anyone to know John could be like this.

And he never would have suspected John could be like this with him, anyway.

"But I want—" Rodney says breathlessly when John pulls away, and John frowns, waiting, then bends and licks once at Rodney's lower lip as if trying to coax the rest out. "Oh, God," Rodney says, incapable of articulating it because of that tongue, and that mouth, and the way John has moved on and is nuzzling his way past Rodney's jaw and over to his ear.

This leaves John's own ear exposed for attack, and Rodney lifts his head and rubs his lips against the shell. John stiffens in his arms; Rodney isn't sure if that's a good thing or not, so he does it again, and feels John actually shudder.

"Okay?" Rodney whispers.

John is still, and after a moment he shrugs.

"That's not an answer," Rodney says, disgruntled, but John is already nosing his way down to Rodney's neck, and he's found that spot that always makes Rodney's toes curl up into tight balls of _Dear God_. Suddenly his shirt is peeling open as if by magic, and John is mouthing his way down the gap he's created, and it's all so unfair because Rodney wanted to do something, he had a _plan_ , seeing John all laid out, and as is apparently developing into some sort of pattern, Rodney's entirely too big brain has yet again failed him at the critical moment and he finds himself once again shivering under John's mouth and clever, diabolical hands, now unzipping his trousers, and—

"Wait, wait—"

Sheppard looks up; he's kneeling on the edge of the sofa, his hands full of Rodney's pants, which are already halfway down his legs, and Rodney is entirely aware he looks quite ridiculous, and that this is an absurd point in the proceedings to pause for reflection, except he finally, finally _is_ , and that's the important thing, so he clutches onto it with both hands and takes a deep breath.

"Not," he says carefully, "that I have any problem with the direction things are heading in..."

"Okay," John says, frowning, and he finishes taking off Rodney's pants, but then sits on the side of the couch.

"Or, mind you, any complaints whatsoever about past...performance."

John's eyes narrow.

"I just—I just, it's just that, I had something, an idea, and it seemed to be going that way, and then the chair, and the spinning, and before I knew it—"

"Hey, hey, breathe, buddy." John leans over him and brushes one hand over his chest. "What's the rush?"

And that is entirely the problem, because it always seems like there is such a terrible rush, at least in Rodney's mind, and things happen so quickly, as if time suffers under completely different rules in the Sheppard Zone, or maybe it's the Rodney and John Zone, because really Rodney can't put the blame solely on John's shoulders.

John's shoulders. Which are still fully dressed in his worn ROTC T-shirt and pants while Rodney is lying here in his unbuttoned shirt and boxers and white socks.

"No rush," he says. "You're right. Just—" Rodney pulls his legs up and around so he can stand up, and then he bends over John and tugs on his shirt. John shoots him a bemused look but lifts his arms, letting Rodney pull it off him, and then John's hair is sticking every which way and all that skin—a _wealth_ of skin, like a herd of horses or a pack of dogs, Rodney thinks idly—the wealth of John's skin is revealed to him. He pushes on John's shoulder, and feels the minute resistance before John falls back and then swings his legs up so he's lying on the sofa again.

"Better?" John asks, still looking puzzled, and there's a subtle tension to him now that wasn't there earlier, as if he's uncomfortable, or worried he'll screw something up, which isn't what Rodney was after at all. He wants to get them back to where they were before, when this was lazy and easy and John was just there, puddled under him on the couch.

Well, the best things between them have always started with a kiss, including that very first one after-hours in the jumper bay when John reconfigured the power conduit solo using the crystal from the navigation subsystem by following Rodney's _In-the-Event-You-Might-Have-to-Kiss-Your-Ass-Goodbye Emergency Fixit Manual_. John's eyes had lit up as bright as the power module, and Rodney had just _had_ to. Just had to.

Just like he does now, leaning over, skin touching skin as his stomach brushes against John's side, and then he kisses John deep and slow, because there's no rush. He's not anxious anymore. John's mouth opens under his just like it did back then—easily, gratefully—and it blows Rodney's mind all over again, a cognitive dissonance that does not compute, _will_ not compute, because John could have anyone, but John wants him. Badly, if the shaky gasp is any indication, or the moan when Rodney's hand, seeking support, plants itself on John's chest just over his nipple.

"This? You like this?" Rodney asks, but John doesn't answer, just kisses him again. Rodney's starting to realize that asking isn't going to get him the answers he needs; that maybe he isn't the only one who feels out of control. Which explains a lot, really. So, Rodney is deliberate this time when he kisses down to John's ear and captures the tip between his lips and flicks his tongue against it. He has his hand on John's chest and feels the shiver, feels John's nipple grow hard under his palm.

It's not power he feels then, but relief. This is just like science, only better. Because it's John.

Rodney slides his hand down John's abdomen to the waist of his BDU pants, and John sucks in his breath. The resulting gap makes it easy for Rodney to slip his fingers underneath, and he finds out shockingly fast that John has gone commando—his hard cock slips into Rodney's hand, and John lets out a choked sob.

"Rodney—" John's hips flex upward. Squeezing in response, Rodney lets John push his cock through his fist a couple of times before pulling away his hand.

Not tonight. He's done with quick and furious hand-jobs and frantic rub-offs. Rodney carefully lifts the front of John's pants and unbuttons them, peeling them open to reveal John's pretty cock, flushed red and tight against his belly. Everything about the man is a contradiction in beauty and strength, one that Rodney plans to resolve by repeated exposure, if nothing else. He bends and lets the flat of his tongue rest on the notch just below the head of John's cock, that little, sensitive spot he's rubbed with his thumb, making John jerk. There's a fresh, clear pearl of liquid hanging in the slit, and Rodney dabs it out with a lick, smiling when John groans.

"Jesus Christ."

"I assure you, there's no way Jesus gave head nearly as well as I do."

John snickers, and Rodney punishes him by yanking his pants off, and then his socks, leaving him completely naked and staring up at him, a slight smile on his face. After a while John crosses his arms on his chest as if he doesn't know what to do with them, and Rodney realizes he's just been standing there, staring.

"You gonna get naked?" John says finally, his voice low.

"Soon, soon." Rodney is distracted by the wealth, by the way John's thigh muscles flex as he shifts his leg, at the bunching of his biceps and the twitching of his cock with his heartbeat. "If I had any talent at all for—" Rodney sweeps his hands over John to illustrate, "—I would, you know. I would draw you, or paint you. Or in marble, I think, even if it took years. Even if I went blind doing it—"

"Jesus, McKay—" John sits up suddenly and grabs his hand, trying to pull him down. Rodney lets him, until he's on one hip beside John on the couch and they're kissing again. But then Rodney stops and pulls back, determined to finish what he's started.

"My turn still," he murmurs, and now John is naked, nothing but shivering skin and silky hair under Rodney's palms, and when Rodney reaches John's cock he turns and angles so he can take it into his mouth, so he can wet it with his tongue and suck it in, and John makes a heartbreaking sound, relief and pain and hope and need all tangled into a cry that sends shivers down Rodney's spine. So Rodney curls his fist at the base of John's cock and begins to stroke, trying to meet his lips with his fist. He can feel the strength in the shaft in his hand, but feels the give there as well, the tenderness of thin skin and hollow vessels. Soon his spit makes everything smoother, and he starts stroking faster, easing back to taste the precum bubbling from the head. Rodney licks lazily there for a few beats, being a little selfish because it's been so long since he's done this, and he's missed it.

John tastes _good_. Rodney almost laughs, because he knows what John's reaction would be to that— _Jesus, McKay, you'll eat anything_ —and Rodney thinks maybe he's losing his mind a little, and a huge part of it is his sheer relief because he's not uncertain any longer. He's not off-balance. He's blowing John, and John is loving it, if the twitching of his thighs is anything to go by, or the way he's moaning out loud and petting Rodney's back and neck.

"God, Rodney, Rodney, wait, no, I'm—"

Rodney's left hand has been curled around John's thigh for balance, and he feels it go rock-hard, and then John's cock does, too, and Rodney times it perfectly, pulls back and flicks the head lightly with his tongue, and John _shouts_ and comes, spurting into his mouth over and over, trembling and shaking and still coming, until Rodney has to pull away to swallow and finish him with his hand. John makes a weird, whimpering sound and spurts again, hard enough to dribble more come over Rodney's fingers and onto his own stomach, and then he grabs Rodney's hand to keep him still.

Rodney smiles, knowing it's his pure evil genius grin but helpless to stop it, because he's pretty sure he just blew John's mind. And John is still trembling, his hand clenched around Rodney's as if he doesn't want either of them to let go of him. Finally, John releases him with a shaky sigh, and Rodney does too, peeling his sticky hand away and making John yelp a little because, yeah, he must be pretty sensitive now.

John has his other hand over his face and he's muttering, "God. Jesus, God." Rodney has to shift around so he can see him better.

"You all right?"

"All right?" John drops his hand. "I think you broke something. I swear to God I've never come that hard in my life." He sounds almost accusing, except there's a gleam in his eye.

Rodney has to resist the urge to bounce. "Well, I did warn you."

"Yes, you did. Jesus has nothing on you."

"And I'm very good at fixing things, you know. I mean, in case you really are broken."

John rolls his eyes. "Smart ass."

Rodney grins.

"Come _here_."

Rodney goes. As soon as he's in grabbing distance, John grabs, hauling him down and kissing him, licking the corners of Rodney's lips and then pushing his tongue into Rodney's mouth. "You're incredible," John mutters, then kisses him again. "I don't know if I—" He stops and rubs his thumb over Rodney's lip.

"This isn't a competition," Rodney says, a little pissed off, and then pauses for thought. "Because if that's why you've been—" He shuts up and kisses John again. Right now his dick is so hard it's about to do the macarena; not a good time to start a fight.

But John isn't an idiot; he pulls away. "Why I've what?"

Rodney shrugs uncomfortably. "Why you've just. Sort of. You've been, you know—taking over things. With us."

John frowns, and his eyes go inward. Then he smiles, except it's a little sad. "Only because...hey, look, don't take this wrong, but sometimes you get...you seemed a little freaked." John shrugs. "I've just been trying to show you you don't have to worry."

"I don't have to worry." Is that all? Rodney's chest bubbles with relief.

"Yeah. Because we're good."

"We are, aren't we?"

John's smile is full blown this time.

Rodney glares. "Except I've got a hard-on that could drill through Ancient metal."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes."

"We could use that, you know. We still haven't figured out how to cut our way through to that secret compartment in sub-level six—"

Rodney is about to punch him, but John is already pushing him down against the back of the couch, and he's squirreling his hand into Rodney's boxers, and that—yes, that right there, the way John grips him, so sure and tight and unlike anyone else, as if John's hand knows him, knows exactly how much pressure Rodney likes, and how he likes it when John thumbs the edge of his foreskin over and over the head, smoothing his precum around so its all slidey and slick in there, soft skin against soft skin while he strokes down and up and over and down again—God.

And John nudges away the edge of Rodney's shirt to latch onto his nipple and sucks and nips while he strokes Rodney's cock, creating a current between his nipple and his cock, cock and nipple, so that Rodney just tilts his head back and arches his chest and moans and whines and comes so hard that later—much, much later—he finds a tiny dab of dried come on the Ancient wall sconce next to the back of the couch.

But that's after they wash up and unwrinkle John's performance evaluation for Private Peters while John makes terrible, awful, dirty puns, and after they finally finish their reviews and turn them in and go back to Rodney's quarters and fall asleep and Rodney realizes, in reviewing his own performance, that for the first time in his life he has a) successfully navigated a sticky emotional issue in a serious relationship with someone without b) screwing it up or putting his foot in his mouth, and that c) he got a fucking great orgasm out of it in the process. And also, by the way, d) he blew John's mind.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

  


_End._

  



End file.
